


Sealed Records

by Nerdling_Queen



Series: i'm not here looking for absolution (i found myself an old solution) [5]
Category: Mortal Instruments Series - Cassandra Clare, Ryn's Multiverse
Genre: Angst, Bigender Character, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Identity Issues, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Torture, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, SPOILERS FOR HWGA(SIYE), Sadness, Simon has a long relationship with the Silent Brothers, The Silent Brothers are not robots, and assorted other issues, hwga(siye) Simon has issues, it's explained, sort of, the kind of religious imagery that comes with this story, weird issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-26
Updated: 2015-09-25
Packaged: 2018-04-11 06:18:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4424666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nerdling_Queen/pseuds/Nerdling_Queen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Silent Brothers have a long, not-actually-that-complicated relationship with the soul that now resides inside the body of Simon Lewis: they tell the Brothers their story, and the Brothers write it down.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Divine_Umbrella](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Divine_Umbrella/gifts).
  * Inspired by [here we go again (straight into your embrace)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3927733) by [Nerdling_Queen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nerdling_Queen/pseuds/Nerdling_Queen). 



> This is... kinda a weird story. It's short, less than two thousand words in total, and the tenses are strange- I switch from past to present and it might be a little confusing. Also confusing is the use of pronouns.... you'll get it, I'm sure.  
> There may be more at some point in the future, but for right now, this is all there is.  
> Like your gift, DyingIsntFun? ;)  
> ONWARDS, MINIONS!!!

Brother Jeremiah comes to take his account three days after Clary and Jace and the Lightwoods visit the City of Bones. Simon’s just surprised they haven’t sent a representative sooner; surely they’ve known he was here longer? He asks, and Jeremiah fixes him with a look and says, simply, _We could not interfere with a mundane uninvolved with the Shadow World. The Clave is stricter now about these things._

Simon cracks a grin as he picks up the pen. The accounts have always been handwritten, on the same thick, sturdy paper the Brothers use for most everything, but the pens are newer. Simon assumes they’re for guests. “Yet if a Brother wished to hear the life story of a sparkly vampire just a few centuries ago, they were all for it.”

Jeremiah’s mouth doesn’t move, but Simon can sense the Brother’s smile.

 

* * *

They’ve always assumed it’s something to do with the Brothers’ advanced connection to the supernatural world that enables them to do it. The Sisters they’ve met can tell something is different about them, but it’s the Brothers who can tell the specifics. It’s weaker on the others; as far as S and the Brothers have figured out, since S _knows_ what they are, their supernatural signature is brighter and clearer than the others’. The strongest Brother can only tell that a soul is older than the body, old in a way that it naturally cannot be, and the Silent Brothers then extrapolates from S’s description of the physical form their companions take to confirm whether or not the old soul is one of them. If not… well, S knows that their little group isn’t the only collection of bound and cycling souls. If they’re separate, the Brothers have no authority over them.

They have been giving the Brothers their stories since the Silent Brothers were formed, actually. Their story was apparently a well-known “myth” among the early Nephilim; no one was sure if the tale of Fallen angels, outcast demons, powerful Downworlders and forbidden love was true until the Brothers had gotten going and a brown-eyed man with messy brunet curls and a calm smile that gave nothing away had walked into the City and asked to speak with a scribe.

His name was Simon Tantara, and he was the thirteenth lifetime. The Silent Brothers were confused by his insistence, since the tale they knew had happened only years after the Incursion of the demons, but he just looked at them, sighed, and explained that souls don’t travel through time chronologically. He was from this time, but the fifth was from the 1700s, and the tenth from even later. The Brothers were fascinated, asking all types of questions. The man, known simply as Tantara, answered every one he could with complete honesty.

 _We are not far into the cycles yet,_ he confided, _but I will tell all that I can._

He revolutionized their understanding of time and the afterlife, of what happened to angels who were deemed irredeemable by their Father and to demons who were banished from Hell. He told them the true story of Alexandriel and Magnus and the other four and the people who surrounded them, those whose names had been mostly forgotten, and the ending of the tale whose conclusion had never been concrete. He told them what it meant to be a Downworlder in a world where demons reigned supreme, and what it meant to love in a world where death and hate were champion.

He told them what heavenly fire felt like, how to care for an injured angel and how to defeat one in hand-to-hand, and how to make a faerie your friend instead of your enemy. He wrote down his life story, everything that he could remember from his thirty-one years of life, and then- before their eyes- his body flickered and shimmered and _changed_ , and someone different yet eerily similar was standing in his place: another mundane man, but this one considerably older, with silver streaking his brown curls and round circles of glass inside metal frames perched on the bridge of his nose, in the same clothing Tantara had worn and the same ancient, enduring deep brown eyes.

He had held out a hand to the Brother in charge, heavy eyes lighting up a little, and introduced himself. _My name is Sam Tilsker_ , he told them. _I’m from the 1700s. I think it is my turn to tell my tale, is it not?_

* * *

When they are born before the formation of the Silent Brothers, which- besides Symeon, of course- has happened twice, their tale is told to the Brothers in a different time. They tell it themself, of course, but in an era not their own. With Tantara, all thirteen that had been created had gone at once; things work differently, after, now that a system has been established. The Brothers know to expect them, now, or at least a person with messy brown curls and too-old dark eyes and a lopsided smile that doesn’t appear as often as it looks like it should.

(They don’t smile around the Brothers like they do outside the City, simply because the Brothers take their life stories and hoard them, and they associate the pain of their lives with the City and its inhabitants. It’s unfortunate, but they can’t really help it.)

The new initiates of the order are told of their tale- the origins and the bare bones of what happens after, nothing more- as soon as they take their Marks and transform themselves. Then they are told to await the visit; it doesn’t happen as often as one might think, but every lifetime drags themself there at some point.

S has missed a visit during a lifetime quite a few times, actually. It’s never been on purpose- either they died too young or never got an opportunity to get to the City, and it happens more often than anyone likes- but the lifetime always gets an opportunity during another lifetime’s visit. Every Brother gets used to seeing S switch bodies; it’s a part of the job.

* * *

This whole thing does, of course, mean that the Brothers sometimes get glimpses of the future via S’s experiences. They’ve tried to cut down on the unavoidable spoilers by only letting present and past lifetimes through, but sometimes it can’t be helped. The Brothers have sworn not to interfere with time using the knowledge, and S is satisfied with that.

The Silent Brothers do not break promises.

* * *

Symeon’s story is told by many different people: the Brothers tell S their version first, the tale they’ve been told- or at least the most popular version of it.

S laughs their head off.

 _Sorry, sorry_ , they gasp, bent over and still shaking a little. _That is just so… so inaccurate._ They bring their head up, cheeks flushed and eyes bright. _It sounds like some awful love story, something made up for the sake of the forbidden love trope._

 _The forbidden love what?_ a Brother asks. S waves it off. _Future term, sorry. God, that’s not how it happened… well,_ and they frown. _Actually, some of that is accurate. Just… the way you present it…_ The light fades from their dark eyes. _We fought a war. We suffered, we killed, people we cared for were killed… I was tortured, Isabiel was almost raped… Claerissa lost the respect of her people because she was friends with us… Magnus lost his home… and Alexandriel-_ they pause and shudder. _What happened to us was not a love story,_ they tell the Brothers, voice quiet but ringing in the otherwise silent room. _What happened to us was a tragedy on par with something the Greeks would write._

A Brother almost asks what a Greek tragedy is before seeing the expression on S’s face and reconsidering.

 _Can you tell us about it?_ the head Brother- his name might be Elijah- asks gently.

S looks up at them, teeth sinking into their lower lip, and nods slowly. _Yes_ , they affirm, even slower. _I think we can_.

Their body dissolves into light- the normal shimmering intensified by eleven. When the glow fades, there is a man sitting there, skin a patchwork of awful scarring and glittering golden signs. He looks up at the towering Brothers, molten eyes lit up bright, and his mouth twitches upward.

 _You wished to hear my story?_ he asks, words ringing in multiple voices. The consciousness is Symeon’s, but he is not alone in the tale that ought to be solely his.

The Brothers glance at one another before maybe-Elijah returns his solemn gaze to Symeon. _Yes_ , they intone in unison.

A slow smile spreads across the warlock’s scarred, gilded face. _Good_ , he says, and he speaks his life aloud as he writes.

* * *

The Brothers are careful with the records they hold. After Sinon’s disastrous mishap in trying to tell Iason their story (and being killed gruesomely as a result), S and the Silent Brothers decide to keep outsiders _out_. No one besides the order and S themself will know of the mountains of paper hidden away inside the City of Bones.

At least, that’s the idea.

* * *

The records are moved once they no longer fit in one area- normally once every few centuries. Well, someone didn’t hide them as well as he should have, and a Nephilim visitor finds one account- Sam’s.

That cycle is Silena’s, and she never gets to the Silent City to tell her tale in her lifetime.

The Brother responsible is punished severely, and Silena tells her story and is told of the accident in return when she piggybacks on someone else’s visit.

She stares at the table for a long time before she looks up and smiles weakly. _I still died for a good cause,_ she says finally. _And Symeon did well, too. I… I am… at peace with my fate_.

It is a bold-faced lie. Everyone in the room and inside Silena’s mind/soul knows it.

No one challenges her claim.

* * *

Simon caps his pen and leans back in his chair, letting his eyes gleam bright for a moment and his skin flicker with scars that aren’t his, looking at the room with borrowed Sight for a few stolen seconds. He glances at Jeremiah once he is firmly Simon Lewis again.

“I’m going to have to come back,” he points out. “I’m seventeen, hopefully I’ve got a lot left to live.”

Jeremiah looks at him evenly. _We will welcome your return, S._

Simon closes his eyes tightly for a second. Then he gets up, dropping the pen on top of the pile of papers, and pushes his chair in.

“Thanks,” he mutters on his way out the door.

The ghost of a smile flickers over Jeremiah’s face, there and gone faster than a blink. _It is our pleasure_ , he says instead.

Simon’s shoulders go up as he walks toward the exit. “I know,” he whispers, pushing the doors open.

 _May the Angel smile upon you_ , Jeremiah says as he steps over the threshold.

Simon goes very still for a moment, and when he turns back, his eyes are molten and boiling.

“Why would he? We took three of his siblings and caused him no end of trouble.”

And then he’s gone, disappeared in the graveyard, and Jeremiah’s chest feels strangely tight in a way it hasn’t since he took his vows.


	2. ashes, ashes, we all fall down (down, down, down)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mourning is a part of living. S knows this well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SPOILERS FOR THE IN-PROGRESS LIFETIME.  
> Also angst and grief and tears. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯  
> ONWARDS, MINIONS!!!

Simon wakes up at dawn, the sky hemmed with soft peach and gold as the sun just starts to peek out. He licks his lips and slides out of his body as easily as slipping out of a shirt, and Silena rises easily to take his place. They don’t look that different, really, she just has the soft swell of breasts and longer hair and wider hips. They’re lucky about the time: Elaine is asleep and won’t be awake until ten, and Becky is at college, so they have hours until they have to be back home.

She dresses simply, plain black T-shirt under a white hoodie and black jeans. She ties her mess of curls back with a white tie- Simon keeps several in his drawer for the occasions when he’s not the one in control- and ties a white ribbon around her arm, under the sleeve of the hoodie. She’s a mess of Shadowhunter and mundane mourning traditions, eyes still and cold, lips pressed tightly together. Tears are pressing at the back of her eyes, but it’s not time for that yet.

She slides the hood up over her face, skin pale, and zips it up far enough that it almost manages to obscure the scarlet line over her throat. Silena creeps down the stairs, ignoring breakfast, and grabs their house key from the mantel. She locks the door behind her and slips the key into her pocket and starts walking.

The entrance is a sizable distance from the Lewis house, but she doesn’t even consider not walking. Her legs are burning from exertion by the time she gets there, but it’s the good kind of burn; it focuses her in on the here and now, not the memories shrouding her vision and clouding her mind. The Brother on duty lets her in without question or comment, which she’s quietly grateful for: after years of this, they know not to talk to Silena on this day, when she looks more like a walking statue than a person.

She wanders the halls on autopilot, the destination written into the soles of her feet, mind free to drift. She has so little to recall, especially compared to some of the others; other than Clark, she’d known them for only a few months before her death.

The tears give another insistent push and she pushes back, harder.

She remembers the most about Clark, her adoptive brother: his insistence that she could be whoever she wanted and he’d support her; the flare in his green eyes whenever she got hurt; the droop of his face after their disastrous kiss, both of them repulsed and hurt but neither willing to admit it. The softer, platonic press of his mouth against her hairline when she cried into his shoulder about things he could never know, things that she hadn’t experienced but that she remembered as clearly as she did her own name. His fiery curls and short stature that he was always a little insecure about and his freckles, dotted everywhere like cinnamon stars. Silena had lived with him and his parents for most of her life, and she is grateful for every day of it, despite never quite fitting in with the Fairchilds’ view of how things were supposed to be. He was two years younger than she was, but it had never mattered, to either of them.

She remembers Liam next, the young boy trying to be a man. The ghost of a smile flickers over her face as a half-forgotten image of Liam bright red and stammering, trying to play off the fact that he was draped over Clark and his mouth was red and his eyes were dazed. Silena had laughed at them both and shut the door on them.

Liam had been wonderful, for all that he was years younger than her. He was strong when he needed to be, and sweet and soft and comforting the rest of the time. He was too gentle to be a Shadowhunter, she’d always thought; Isabiel may have been a warrior, but she had a soft side, and Liam seemed to have gotten all of the softness and hardly any of the fight- which would’ve been fine if he had been a mundane. But as a Nephilim… Silena had never quite known what to make of this soft, sweet, easily-embarrassed version of the fiery warrior Isabiel had been. He had been strange to her in a way the others rarely were to them, simply because Liam was not like any other Isabiel-incarnation S had ever known. But Silena had loved him anyway, no matter his softness, and she misses him. It had been nice, protecting him for once because he needed the protection.

His older sister, Alexia. They’d gotten along well, especially since it had taken both of them to finally make Liam and Clark get together. Alexia had been different, too; she’d barely had any of the normal self-hatred and insecurity that was normally a huge part of Alexandriel’s cycles. Instead, she was sassy and strong and confident, not doubting herself for loving Magdelena and not caring that her brother loved another boy. Alexia, like her brother, had been the side of the First that barely ever made an appearance, but where Liam was too soft and sweet to have to live the life of a Nephilim, Alexia _thrived_ on Shadowhunting. She had killed a Behemoth, after all; she was the side of Alexandriel that always seemed to fade into the background, overshadowed by insecurity and self-loathing and doubt. She had been a breath of fresh air, and Silena hated that she’d never gotten the chance to really know Alexia before Silena died.

Magdelena… so confident in her magic and so confused when Nephilim trusted her or showed faith in her, so insecure when it came to caring for Maxie but completely in her element when drawing pentagrams and shoving Alexia against a wall, mouths pushing together insistently, hands tangling in black hair. Magdelena hadn’t interacted with Silena much in those six months, but… at the warehouse. It had been Magdelena to trigger the Portal’s opening, her blood dripping sticky-salty scarlet onto rough stone, and it had been Silena-Symeon-S who had closed it, their throat gaping open and their blood tinged with gold and black in the right light. Silena hadn’t needed to know Magdelena well to make that choice, and she still doesn’t regret it: a life had to be given, and S’s life will always be preferable to one of the others’. No question in their mind.

And then there was Jess. Beautiful, confident, strong Jess, who was more at home on the battlefield than in the Institute, who Silena had only kissed once but who, Silena knows, never wanted that kiss to stop; Jess, who hated herself for liking girls (Alexia may have let some things slip) but treasured her talent with seraphs, and who was raised to look down on Downworlders but tried her best to get past all that. Jess, whose curls made Silena want to grab them and yank her head back, bare her throat and take her mouth; whose callused, clever fingers knew the grip and strength of a weapon more than any other sensation; whose eyes were the wrong color, crystal blue instead of molten gold, but they were pretty enough in their own right, and even if they were wrong they were a part of Jess and Silena had forced herself to accept that.

Jess, whose jar is feet away from Silena, right now.

_The fucking jar._

Families are normally stored together, but the Brothers have a different system for S’s herehiatei than they let on. Every Nephilim lifetime is stored in a specific section, accessible only with permission from a Brother, and labeled with care and kindness.

Silena runs her fingers along the wall, the sensitive tips bumping along the engraved names: _Alexia Lightwood, Liam Lightwood, Clark Fairchild, Maxandria Lightwood._ Silena’s not here, since her body was stolen and the Brothers couldn’t cremate her.

There.

 _Jess Herondale_. Gilded letters, little herons along the edges of the name plaque where Alexia and Liam and Maxie have stylised flames and Clark, thorny rose stems. Her jar is golden too, maybe not the actual metal but the color, painted in intricate patterns along the outside, just like all the other cycle jars.

One of Silena’s hands is pressed against the words hard enough to imprint them into her fingertips. The other is over her mouth, trying to shove the tears and words alike back down, but it’s out of her control now. She slides to her knees against the wall, head tilted back to see the jar, hands falling limp into her lap.

“I miss you,” she says hoarsely, tears sliding down her cheeks. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I would have done it much earlier if- if I knew-”

She stops, throat clogging.

“I’m sorry. I never meant to- to confuse you, with what I did. Or… or hurt you. I just- I thought we were going to die, and we would’ve died together and on the same side, and that doesn’t happen often enough, and I- I wanted… something. Just… just one thing, one happy memory, one kiss- that’s all I wanted. All I needed. I never meant to hurt you with it, or make you think things…”

Silena drags her sleeve over her face.

“What am I doing?” she asks the air plaintively. “I don’t know what you thought. I don’t know how you felt. Why am I even here?”

She takes a deep breath, eyes shimmering and still fixed on Jess’s final resting place.

“Anyway. I love you, and I miss you, and… I wish, so so much, that we’d had more time.” She gets to her feet and brushes her hands over the jar once more, a bittersweet smile twisting her lips. “But what we did have… I am grateful for it. So grateful. And I- I don’t regret dying the way I did. I stand by my choice.

“I just wish it hadn’t been in front of you.”

Silena kisses the cold metal, just a light, fleeting glance of her mouth, and then she turns away and walks back toward the entrance to the City.

There’s a life she has to return Simon to. 

**Author's Note:**

> *smirks evilly*  
> Your move, minions.


End file.
